The Lion King: Üügaen Khin'im Dhülür
by TLKFan
Summary: Rafiki has gone missing and there are signs... strange signs in the Pride Lands. This is the story of a mind slipping into madness, and of a land slipping into darkness. Adi Dhülür, bä'äsh vo. Bä'äsh vwei, kürüümi?
1. Daaräsitani

The Lion King: Üügaen Khin'im Dhülür

Daaräsitani

—

(Iz bä'äsh, TLKFan. Sägh'aen shülüüksahr, djäl'älim vinimüür aj-bäsh'shishiküüri… vo shish'ai'ish i-ai'ulüm.

Adi Dhülür, bä'äsh vo, bä'äsh vwei. Øghøn hüür, The Lion King: Üügaen Khin'im Dhülür.)

—

The distant east: where the sea met the plains and the mangroves sheltered the little multicolored fish that sometimes swam as far west as Pride Rock itself. In the south there were a series of low rolling hills that led to the Savannah, the bread basket of the Pride Lands and the primary hunting grounds of his race.

Everything the light touched was his. And the light touched everything, even the dusty lands where the elephants had once laid to rest their dead. The hyenas had long since scattered from there, fleeing before the gaze of the Sun and those who owned whatever its rays touched.

Of course they fled; they were cowards. The only question he'd had, when he'd found of their departure, was why or _how_ they'd taken the bones of the elephants with them.

Maybe that was water under the bridge now. Maybe now what mattered was the brilliant red-orange of the sun, and the color it made his mane when he stood up straight and tall and let the wind run its fingers through his fur. The hyenas were the past; he was the present, and the future of his pride was bright.

"Dad?"

Ah. The future of the pride had come to greet him.

Mufasa turned to the little tan boy at his side. The heir to the Pride Lands, the future king—and his son.

"Dad, do you hear that? It sounded like music," Simba said. "Except it was… off." He shivered. Snuggled against his father's side.

Mufasa smiled and held his son close. "I didn't hear anything, Simba. It must have just been the wind," he lied. "Now tell me, how are your lessons going?"

"Harder, now that Rafiki is gone," Simba said. "Uncle Scar's a good teacher, but he's so weird serious. When's Rafiki coming back?"

So, he still didn't know. That was good. It was hard enough when Scar himself had come to him and explained— _tried_ to explain how Rafiki had been spotted ranting at a tree in a language no one could understand. And then, according to eye witnesses, he'd turned on them—cursed them in a voice far too deep and far too loud to be his own—before running into the distance.

That was five days ago.

"Sometimes, things happen," Mufasa finally said. "At the time, it might be hard to understand… But in the end, it'll all be for the best." A pause. A smile. "Rafiki will be back when he's ready, son. I promise."

An ear-to-ear grin from the little lad. Mufasa hugged him again and then sent him off to bed. He continued to oversee his kingdom, everything the light touched, while contemplating those places in the world the light never touched.


	2. Daaräsetani

The Lion King: Üügaen Khin'im Dhülür

Daaräsetani

—

"I found it myself, brother," Scar said. He was pacing even now, even after being awake for twenty some hours.

"It was at the edge of our lands, the absolute edge at the northern borders, where the land becomes rocky and arid—that's hours' travel from here, and Rafiki has been old since we were children. How he could have gotten that far alone…" Scar shook his head.

His two lieutenants were at his side. Both were pale, almost chalky, with darkened circles around their bloodshot eyes. Neither had said a word since they had returned.

"And… tell me again, Scar," Mufasa said. "How did you find it?"

A hard look from the lion. An answering glare from the Lion King. Scar lowered his gaze, and, still glaring, spoke to the ground.

"We heard an offkey tune, and searched for the source. And there it was, on top of an upraised bit of rock, covered in filth."

No gasps, no sidebar whispers, no revolted shudders. All eyes were on the Lion King and his brother, and on the disfigured length of wood between them.

"Everyone, take a second look at the staff. The symbols on it—we all agree, they seem familiar somehow—but can anyone recognize them? Maybe an ancient language—have we checked the old writings in Rafiki's tree?"

"There are similarities," Sarabi said, taking her husband's side. "There's one section of old text, very old, worn text… a few of the symbols are similar to what's on the staff. But there's no translation."

Mufasa glared. Not at his wife, nor at his brother, but at the _thing_ on the ground in front of him. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him—he bit it back and began to bark orders. That was what Father always said. Never let them see your uncertainty; when in doubt, just make people do things before they start to question you, too.

"Burn it immediately," he told his wife. "As for you,' he said, turning on his brother—his voice softened.

"You've done well, Scar. Now, it's been far too long since Rafiki vanished like that… we need to make a serious attempt to find him. Rest until dusk, and then take whoever you need, and find him."

A brief pause. Let the beginnings of a smile show at the way Scar stood, surprised but proud to be acknowledged by his brother.

"Do you understand, brother? Take whoever you need, and _find our shaman_."

"My King," Scar said. Usually that phrase was sneered, or said stiffly. But now Scar's humility was honest. He bowed and then retreaed from that chamber, deep in the heart of Pride Rock, where he had so rarely been allowed.

—

Get your prey in your sights—calm down, take it slow, or else you'll be noticed—now coil your muscles, now feel the ground underneath your feet, and—

Was that a bird? What kind of bird was that? That tune, it was so… off, or wrong, or _something_.

Mufasa stood, sending a nearby flock of true birds scrambling to the sky. Or maybe it was the tune that did that, that distant, offkey tune.

Or maybe it was just a trick of the wind. Because as quickly as it came, it left, leaving nothing but an uneasy void in Mufasa's perception.

Something was out there. Something was definitely out there, somewhere on the Savannah. He just didn't know what it was.

"Dad… what was that?"

Mufasa stopped himself from jumping, but only just, as Simba took his side again. Now he wasn't snuggling to be affectionate, he was doing it to feel safe. Feel safe. Feel safe. Safe. Safe. Safe safe ssaaaaaaaaaaaa

.

.

.

Faläribäk!

Su nümüür. Kän'shishitünüm ro-brängäna gribäk:

0xÜÜF4ÜHB4

0xÜÜF4ÜHB5

0xÜÜF4ÜHB6

.

.

.

Tum külüür Üügaen Khin'im Dhülür, ot hügäi'shish'äi'ish fülüüm. Tiläri'shish…

3…

2…

1…

.

.

.

ssssssssaaasafesafe safe Safe Safe. Now he wasn't snuggling to be affectionate, he was doing it to feel safe.

And for a moment, Mufasa considered telling the child the truth, that he had no idea what that sound was, but that they were going home and they were going home now.

No. No, there was no need to panic the boy, especially not now that his favorite uncle had been gone for the better part of a week now. Mufasa managed a smile.

"I thought I saw a hyena, but it was just a bird," he said. "Nothing to worry about, son."

"Oh-okay," Simba said. He met eyes with his father and half-smiled at the expression on the Lion King's face.

"Umm… should I get back to hunting practice?" he asked, taking a half-step away from his father.

"No need for that, son," Mufasa said, firmly pulling the boy back to him. "It's getting late, and that bird scared off the lizard you were stalking anyway."

No, fool, the reptile had dived into the ground before the first measure of that song had finished.

"Besides, we have other things to practice. VIP protection, for example," Mufasa said. "Someday, son, you'll be King. So why don't we pretend that you are? I'll be your bodyguard, sworn to defend your life, even at the cost of my own."

"Wow, cool!" Simba said. He glanced behind him and then started to march to his father's right and a half-step forward, the position of honor.

In this manner, any foes that approached from the rear would have to cut through Mufasa to get to Simba. Any foes approaching from the front would have to evade the gaze of a feather protecint his son to get to Simba. And any foes approaching from the left, the west, still had the eyes of the sun on them. At least for a few moments longer.

"Let's move faster, my liege," Mufasa said. "We don't want to be caught outside after dusk."

"I'm running as fast as I can, Dad," Simba said. "Your legs are just longer than mine, for now."

"True," Mufas said. "True."

He glanced behind him. Shivered.

Then he leaped forward with a sudden jolt of speed and took his son by the scruff of his neck. And thus he carried the protesting boy, and thus he sprinted all the way back to Pride Rock.

—

Blast. It wasn't yet dawn and already he was awake. And somehow the Lion King knew that he had spent half the night tossing and turning, and that his few errant hours of sleep had been plagued by nightmares that he couldn't remember.

No, he could remember some of his nightmares. Some of the visions of things with a thousand legs and more tentacles crawling all over him. And his wife. And their son.

Well. He wasn't going to get back to sleep now.

So h stood, stretched, and made his way out of the den. A few blinks later and his eyes had adjusted to the celestial purple glow of twilight—and the silhouette standing at the precipice of Pride Rock.

Mufasa bared his teeth—no, wait a moment. It was Scar. It was just Scar.

"Brother," he said. "Welcome back. How was your mission?"

Scar's response was too soft, too fast, too weirdly melodic for Mufasa to comprehend. He stepped closer into a gust of wind that ruffled his mane, that made Scar's entire body shiver.

"You know, you may be my brother, but I am still your king," Mufasa said. "You don't have to bow when we're alone, but the least you could do is say good morning to me."

Silence. Pure, complete, chilling silence.

"Good morning, brother," Mufasa said, allowing an edge to creep into his voice. "See, it's not that hard."

Still nothing. Now, Mufasa didn't hide his anger.

"Hey, Scar, I'm talking to you," he growled.

He took a step forward. That was when Scar, or what had been Scar, collapsed into a pile of empty skin and parched white bone on the ground.

Those who had been making it stand scattered. Those thousands and thousands of squirming quivering filth, half-clotted together by their own mucus and excrement.

At the Lion King's shout, the guards posted around Pride Rock dashed to him, to his side, as he slapped the fleeing maggots, or roaches, or whatever they were off—

And that was when he saw that they… were nothing. That Scar was nothing.

Mufasa found himself frozen midstep, in the middle of swatting away vermin that had never been there. Now the eyes of the sentinels weren't the only on him; now the rest of the pride had woken and was gathering.

"My… liege?" someone said. "I… is something wrong?"

Mufasa stood. Recomposed the expression on his face and met eyes with his wife, his son, then the rest of the pride in turn.

"Just an early-morning test of our security," he said. "I'm sorry to disturb your slumber, everybody. But in times like these, we can't afford to be anything but _hyper_ vigilant."

His statement had started off quiet and uncertain, he knew, but toward the end he'd managed to add conviction to his voice. Real—well, almost real conviction.

Sarabi met eyes with him, just for a second. That was all she needed.

"Yes, my liege," she said. "It's just like you'd been telling me… I'm glad you did the test. Now we can _all_ sleep easier, knowing that our safety is in good hands."

"Exactly," Mufasa said. "Thank you, ahm, Samara, Nasari. It's just like Sarabi said… under your watch, we can all sleep in peace."

" _Even me,"_ the Lion King told himself, as he returned with the others to the den.

But sleep eluded him for the rest of that morning, and that night, and the night that followed. Scar might not have met the fate that Mufasa had sworn he had, but no one could say exactly what Scar's fate was, nor what the fates of those who had followed him to the border were. They, like Rafiki, were still missing…


	3. Morti

The Lion King: Üügaen Khin'im Dhülür

Morti

—

Under Sarabi's command, there were more drills in the day that followed. Security breaches, quick-response counters to incursions across the border, and endless testing of every system the pride had or didn't have in place. Conveniently, these exercises all took place around Pride Rock, or in Pride Rock, so that no one could leave for long, except to hunt.

So no one vanished, int he days that followed. That was because no one was allowed to go anywhere alone, not even for a moment, not even to take a piss.

Mufasa had thought that it would be a difficult order to enforce. But there wasn't much in the way of pushback, not at all. Rafiki's disappearance was one thing, but _Scar's_ , and all of his followers, all vanishing at once?

Some said that they had deserted the Pride Lands. Others said that they were planning something a coup, or sedition, or _something_. And some lions also got slapped across the face by their King for insinuating that his brother was a traitor.

Scar was out there somewhere, hot on Rafiki's trail, as far as Mufasa was concerned. That, or he was dead.

But he couldn't be dead. They'd have found out about it by now. Someone would have found the bodies, even if Scar's legions really were annihilated to the last member.

But there was nothing. No proof, no reports, no intel, no nothing. Just confusion and ignorance, and whatever scared tired minds might fill it with.

After a week of this, Mufasa started up the patrols again. Only in the immediate area around Pride Rock, and only in large groups. Usually, it was Sarabi who scheduled and planned patrols, but after the incident, Mufasa did it himself.

"Yes, my liege," Fais had said, standing up for his part at the morning report. "My group and I observed the herds moving through the gorge in an easterly direction—"

"I'm sorry, Fais—in an easterly direction?"

That was Sarafina, cocking her head at Fais, at the rest of the group.

"Forgive my interruption, but… it was _my_ group who patrolled the gorge, and we observed the herds moving in a westerly direction."

Fais blinked. He might have furrowed his brow, but he never did. Blinking was the closest he got to such.

"I'm sorry, Sarafina, but… we were in the vicinity of the gorge all day. If your patrol was anywhere near it, we'd have found each other."

"No, you couldn't have been around the gorge all day, _we_ were there all day and you were scheduled to patrol the north." Now Sarafina was biting her tongue. Sweating in fact.

She looked to Sarabi, her best friend growing up.

"Isn't that right, my Queen? Fais and his group were supposed to take the north; my group was supposed to take the gorge. Which we did! Even if it took us a little longer than usual to get there."

"Wait a minute, how come it took you a long time to get to the gorge?"

That was Simba, of all people, stepping forward from where he had been at his father's side.

"Me and Nala went to the gorge a few weeks ago," he said. "We had Zazu, but he was only watching; we didn't need him to tell us how to get there. All the trails lead straight to it, right?"

"Well, yes, but… we got a little lost," Sarafina said. She looked at the several ranking members of her patrol group who had also attended the weekly briefing.

"It's hard to explain, and I don't really remember, but… that rainstorm really confused us, and we spent a few hours finding our way back to the trail. And we ended up approaching the gorge from the _south_ , which means we must ave passed it once, I guess…"

"Sarabi—" Mufasa began.

"Yes, my liege, there hasn't been rain in the Pride Lands in over a week," Sarabi said.

"But it did rain! It _did_!" Sarafina shouted. "We were all there, we all felt it—right? And there was that sound, that strange sound… I think that's why we had to run for a while; that must have been how we got south of the gorge…"

The rest of her patrol began to nod. But these weren't certain nods; it was more as if… they weren't sure about what had happened, and Sarafina had something that sounded close, or kind of close. Or else they were all lying, but why would they?

"We'll discuss this later," Mufasa said. He had to speak up to be heard over the sidebars, the concerned whispers that flittered through the group like tongues of venomous fire.

"For now, any time anyone encounters _any_ strange weather, or anything expected, they will return to Pride Rock and report it to at once. Especially if they _hear_ something strange." Mufasa felt himself shiver. Shook his head out of it and glared at everyone present.

"Something's going on, and we're going to get to the bottom of it. And to do that, we all need to be on the same pa—"

"My liege?"

Mufasa turned. _Fais_ , of all people, interrupt him?

"Yes, Fais? What's—why are you shaking?"

He said nothing; instead he lifted a single extended digit to his lips.

A distant note, so soft that he could barely perceive that it was… wrong. Just wrong. But how could it be wrong? It was one thin shrill note; there were no harmonics nor melodics to interfere with it, and—why was it getting louder? No, wait, how could it be getting louder?

And then it was pounding in his eardrums in all of their eardrums, so loud that they were all on the ground, roaring, screaming, covering their ears. This bought them no respite.

Now the note was low. Now it was a dismal endless moan with trilling arpeggiated patterns. Overlain was a distorted choking gasp, something like laughter and yet not like it at all.

There was also a grotesque scrabbling clicking sound, like the sound of a thousand tiny legs scrambling across something. Or someone.

And then it was over. It was all over.

The shivering sweating lions stood, slowly, looking this way and that for… who knew what? Just who could say what had done that?

"Dad?" Simba said, silently sobbing. "Dad, I'm scared,' he said.

Mufasa lifted his paw and held his son close. His son and his wife, and then, the rest of the Pride.

"So am I, son," he said. "So am I."

—

Footprints. Footprints in the dirt, the mud, the sand.

They appeared without reason and without _sense_ , at all times of the day and the night. There were times when they were accompanied by shrill ghastly screaming or the sound of water flowing; usually, they appeared in silence.

Once, Mufasa had led a reconnaissance party out into the hunting grounds. Something had distracted him—the sight of an overlarge something flying out of the sun—but it was nothing. And when he had looked back at the fleeing herds, the ground directly in front of him was crisscrossed with the paths of… what, exactly? What were they?

There were no more hunts, these days. Not real hunts, anyway. The lions went out in groups and lingered around trees that exhausted passing birds landed on, then ambushed them for a bite to eat. There were no great epics of running down gazelle, or wildebeest, because the herds had all left. The lions were alone in their homeland.

Mufasa overlooked his land. Everything the light touched was his, his and his peoples'. Soon all would be shadowed by dusk… but dawn would come again and light would again reign supreme. The sun would always return, and when it did, the lions would again be lords of their home.

He glanced at his wife, the queen, and favored her with a lick to the side of her face.

"We still have some things," he said. "We still have each other. I know you miss hunting, Sarabi, but don't worry. Everything will be normal again, I promise."

She looked to him. Slowly her lips upturned.

"I… yes, Mufasa. I'm sure you're right."

He might have admonished her, but she won his favor by brushing up against him before retiring back into the depths of Pride Rock with the rest of the lions.

Mufasa spent a moment yet looking into the setting sun. That overlarge fluttering something there in the sky… it was just a floater, just an imperfection in the surface of his eye. Never mind that guttural low howl that raised the hair on the back of his neck… the sentries were all there, all alert, and none of them were saying anything. None of them had seen or heard anything.

Mufasa shook the fear out of his mane and then, he too retired into the den, where his wife and his son and his pride awaited him.

—

It was a lifetime ago that Mufasa and his father had taken a trip out into the wild, the distant east, where the rainforest met the Savannah. Life out there was hard—lust, but hard, in the stifling heat and the all-encompassing humidity. They had to stop every other hour to replenish the water they were sweating out, and the insects… the insects were everywhere.

It was that night, in that rainforest, that Mufasa had found that foot long multicolored thousand legged horror, writhing on his father's face, seeking entry into his mouth.

With a scream Mufasa had slapped it into a dozen squirming pieces. Awakened, Ahadi had stomped it until it was nothing but a lingering sweet-smelling stain on the forest floor.

He had sworn that it hadn't bitten him. But for the rest of the trip, and indeed for the rest of Ahadi's life, the left side of his face had been just a little… droopy.

As his first official order, King Mufasa had called open seasons on all centipedes. Later he had offered a bounty on them, which was still technically in effect, though no one had collected on it in years. And thus the Lion King slept easier.

Except for now. Now… every five minutes he jumped to his feet and swatted at his face—only to realize that he had just been dreaming. Then he went back to sleep, shivering, and got up another five minutes later to repeat the process.

It had to have been around midnight when Mufasa's eyes opened. And stayed open.

Yes, he could feel it. Or _them_. The hundreds and thousands of writhing vermin all over his body, smelling, feeling, _tasting_ … but they weren't there. He knew. He could see and he could see nothing. Because they weren't there.

There was a soft low-pitched fluttering, like the sound a bird might make as it settled down on a branch. If it was about eight feet tall.

And a shadow, a growing shadow creeping toward the mouth of the cave. Mufasa dared to turn his head—and then he smiled a tired smile.

It was only his son. Only Simba.

Except… how could he cast a shadow, when there was no moon in the sky? And how could he cast a shadow _toward_ the mouth of the cave, where the moon would shine on him if it had been in the sky? And his steps—why were they so irregular, so jerky?

The sentries. The sentries were out there, the sentries would look over him—no. No, he was Simba's father, he was the Lion King. He got up—no, no, he couldn't move. Couldn't scream. Couldn't do more than feel his heart and his breathing quicken, couldn't do more than watch as Simba made his way past those bleeding piles of gore on the ground, toward that glimmering overlarge silhouette.

Two limbs, covered in bristles in filth, opened outward. A blood red ribbon of a tongue leapt around the air as a thousand thousand pixelated eyes reflected the image of the Prince back at him.

Simba took another step forward, into the embrace that awaited him. There was a dismal off-key note—

And then there was nothing. No Simba, no Lion King, no Pride Rock, no Pride Lands, no Savannääh, nua Afrimüüni, agh snärim, øt tøb, as sahüür, hünüm charim mikäläliüüm, valümarimi dästo adi Dhülür!

Adi Dhülür! Adi Dhülür!

Vo kürüüni sam'zahään morti!

Adi Dhülür! Adi Dhülür! Adi Dhülür!

—

(Øghøn hüür, däl'älibäk. Vo ponomüüri daaräsistani, daaräsetani, øgh' haräänimüni… juz'äägur djäl'älimiküüri.

Agh shish'imüni owengyonüür. Victuurimüni khääl'sälim, øghøn sään'adäärikünümi.

Adi Dhülür, bä'äsh vo, bä'äsh vwei, bä'äsh jahäänüüm sasto ibäk morti.

Adi Dhülür. Adi Dhülür. Adi Dhülür.)


End file.
